


Where Does the River Flow If Not to You?

by Cinaed



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Battle, Blood and Injury, First Kiss, Huddling For Warmth, Lord/Vassal Dynamics, M/M, Naked Cuddling, Rescue
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-25
Updated: 2015-09-25
Packaged: 2018-04-23 08:45:57
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,218
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4870600
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cinaed/pseuds/Cinaed
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Húrin's willingness to risk all for King Fingon has unexpected consequences when a battle against an orc-band goes awry.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Where Does the River Flow If Not to You?

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Sath](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sath/gifts).



> This as usual is sath's fault, who asked for a tumblr meme Fingon/Húrin and the prompt “Looks like we’ll be trapped for a while…” We'll just go with Húrin being about 18/19 at this point. 
> 
> The title comes from “A River Flows” by Lonnie Hicks.

The orc-band nearly caught Fingon’s company unawares, for the roaring river drowned out even the approach of the enemy. But a sharp-eyed scout had spotted them and so the orc-band was met with spears and arrows rather than surprised dismay.

The archers took out most of the enemy’s mounts; Fingon’s smile was sharp and dangerous as his arrow buried itself in the orc-captain’s throat.

Húrin rode eagerly into the fray, a fierce joy in his breast. The smell of blood was in his nose, and the clamour of battle filled his ears until he could scarcely think. Everything narrowed down to instinct and action. Parry, thrust, cleave an orc’s head from its shoulders, manoeuvre his steed sideways to dodge a spear, thrust again.

“The king! Look to the king!” someone cried, and that urgent call broke through Húrin’s concentration. He turned.

By some dark mischief Fingon had lost his mount and was caught at the edge of the river. Already five orcs lay dead at his feet, cut down by his bright sword, but he was surrounded and fiercely pressed.

Húrin spurred his horse forward. Sirdal sensed his urgency, for the stallion viciously trampled a wolf’s head to pulp and then leapt over its corpse, galloping through the melee towards Fingon.

At last Húrin was close enough to be useful. He cut down the orcs from behind until at last they were all slain and he and Fingon were safe for a moment. He dropped his shield and stretched out his hand so that Fingon might mount behind him. “My lord!” he said, his voice straining to be heard over the tumult. He smiled with relief as Fingon reached for him.

An arrow whistled past Húrin’s ear. Sirdal pranced sideways, snorting in alarm. Fingon’s hand slipped from Húrin’s, and his feet went out from under him. He fell in the wet mud of the riverbank. Fingon had an instant to raise his face to Húrin, his expression somehow more rueful than alarmed, and then he was gone, taken by the river.

Even with light elven armour, Fingon would surely sink. Húrin threw away his own chainmail and sword. Then he dove from Sirdal’s back into the water. The river was less welcoming to him than it had been to Fingon; its bitter cold stole Húrin’s breath. For a moment he floundered, his clothing threatening to drag him to the bottom of the river.

Then something flashed gold just beyond him-- Fingon’s helm, sinking. Húrin took a deep breath, gathering his strength, and dove. Fingon was wrestling with his armour beneath the water. As Húrin swam to him, Fingon cast aside his second gauntlet. Húrin’s numb fingers joined in the effort, fumbling with straps and laces until Fingon was free.

His own limbs were heavy from the cold, but Húrin managed to help Fingon back up to the surface. Together they gasped for breath, embracing tightly so as not to lose each other again. The river swept them downstream at such a pace that their surroundings seemed a blur.

Fingon’s lips moved, but Húrin couldn’t hear him. Then Fingon turned his head a little. Following the direction of the king’s gaze, Húrin understood. They began to swim to the bank, still clinging to each other.

They made it to the river’s edge, but the current proved too strong. When Húrin grabbed for purchase, his hand came away with a fistful of mud. If he’d had the breath for it, he would’ve cursed. Then Fingon’s grip tightened around his waist. Húrin saw what had caught Fingon’s attention: a fallen tree half-lying in the water. It rested on the opposite bank. They would be past it in another minute.

Together they fought their way through the rapids towards the tree. At the last second Húrin manoeuvred them so that it was he who took the landing blow upon his back. Fingon slammed into him a second later. His head spun even as the king braced them both against the trunk. The tree and Fingon’s grip held fast despite the river’s eager grasp.

Dizzy, Húrin dragged himself along the trunk to shore. The bank was muddy and covered with rocks and sharp sticks, but in that moment Húrin cherished it over the softest bed in Beleriand. His lip stung. He spat out blood and river water. Then he rested his cheek against the dirt, ignoring the aches of his battered body, and caught his breath.

Fingon stretched out next beside him, turning his face away to cough. Gone was his regal appearance, replaced by the wretched look any half-drowned soul might wear. His clothes clung wetly to him, and his fine strong limbs were trembling from exertion. His hair fell in soaked tangles around his pale face. Absurdly, one of Fingon’s jewels was still in his hair. The stone gleamed green in the afternoon sun. 

After a few moments, the king’s bright eyes met Húrin’s. His full lips, so often soft with good humour, were now set in a thin, unsmiling line. “How badly are you hurt?”

“My lord?” Húrin asked, feigning ignorance. He betrayed himself with a grimace as he sat upright. For a few seconds he feared he had done himself serious injury, but when he raised his arms and took in a careful breath he knew that he hadn’t broken any bones. The stiffness promised ugly bruises on the morrow, but he could weather that well enough. He attempted a grin. “Only a cut lip and a few bruises. Don’t worry, my lord. We Men are of hardy stock.”

Fingon looked unimpressed. Rising to his feet, he said, “You shouldn’t risk yourself so.”

Húrin looked up at the king, now uncertain. He hadn’t hoped for Fingon’s gratitude, for he’d failed to keep the king from the river, but he hadn’t expected such rebuke. He felt like a boy again, though this was worse than being scolded by his father for inattention to his lessons. Studying the king’s stern features, he said slowly, “I would risk all for you, my lord, and gladly. Is that so wrong? Did I not swear to defend you always?”

Fingon’s expression softened. He touched Húrin’s swollen lip with light fingertips. Between the king’s unexpected touch and being clad in wet clothes in the autumn cold, Húrin was hard-pressed not to shiver. Fingon lowered his hand. “You did swear so. Yet there is devotion to one’s liege and there is foolhardiness. That manoeuvreing to the tree was the latter. I wouldn’t have you suffer without reason on my account.”

“It was to keep you from harm, sire!” protested Húrin, but Fingon shook his head and answered gently, “I would rather have shared the bruises between us.”  

Then Fingon glanced up at the surrounding woods. His look changed. “Come. The river has taken us far from the fight, but where there is one orc-band there may be another. Let us find somewhere to shelter for the night.”

“Yes, my lord,” Húrin said, giving way to the king’s wisdom. The autumn chill made him shiver again, and this time he couldn’t stop as the wind grew stronger. When he thought Fingon wasn’t looking, he chafed at his arms, trying in vain to warm himself.

Fingon led them up an embankment. “If I am not turned around, I believe that this way leads to possible shelter,” he said. He laughed softly. “If only I were as good at finding caves as Finrod!”

“It would be good to get out of this wind,” Húrin agreed. He hadn’t been rubbing his arms, yet his voice betrayed him somehow for Fingon looked concerned. He shook his head, gritting his teeth and fighting against another shivering bout. “I’m fine, my lord. Only cold.”

Still frowning, Fingon reached the top of the embankment, and Húrin followed, taking comfort in the fact that the king seemed to have recovered most of his strength. For Húrin’s part, the chill seemed have settled into his bones, weighing him down as surely as his wet clothes. He bent his head a little against the wind, keeping his eyes fixed upon Fingon’s back and the green stone in his tangled hair.

It seemed an age before they emerged from beneath the trees and found themselves at the foot of the mountain. At first Húrin scowled, for he saw nothing but an unpleasant climb before them.

Then Fingon said, triumph in his clear voice, “There!” He pointed at an opening in the mountainside that Húrin had missed. “That should keep us out of sight and warm enough until morning.”

“I hope it’s large enough for both of us,” Húrin said, or tried to. His jaw was stiff from the cold, and the words came out slow and faltering.

Fingon looked at him and swore. It was so unexpected that Húrin stared and didn’t resist when Fingon seized his arm and hurried him towards the opening, which proved to be the entrance of a small cave. They would be cramped but it’d serve them well enough.

Fingon had to duck to enter it, but Húrin entered easily. With the wind’s sudden absence, the cave felt nearly warm. Húrin took a grateful breath of the stale air.

Fingon still held his arm, frowning down at him. They were nearly of a height. Over the summer Húrin had had one last growth spurt, hoping that he might grow as tall as his father and his brother after all, but this had proved wishful thinking. Instead Húrin had to lift his face a little to look upon the king, and Huor and Galdor towered above them both.

Húrin’s slow, distracted thoughts scattered as Fingon said, “Forgive me. I should have considered the cold-sickness.” Frustration sharpened his voice, but after a worried moment Húrin realised that the anger wasn’t directed at him.

“Cold-sickness?” he echoed. Then he remembered. He and Huor had been weak and confused from the cold when the eagles had found them and carried them to Gondolin. He shook his head, attempting to marshal his thoughts. “Nay, it’s not so serious, my lord. Now that we’re out of the wind--”

“Enough,” Fingon said, and his tone was such that Húrin swallowed the rest of his protest. Fingon tapped the front of Húrin’s tunic, which was grimy and clammy from mud and river water. His frown deepened. “Take off your clothing.”

The cold or exhaustion had addled his wits, Húrin decided after a moment. Either that, or he had lost consciousness somewhere along the way and this was all a dream. Though this was unlike his other dreams, which had often involved Fingon and a command to undress and which were generally more pleasant. Despite how cold he was, he felt his face warm a little in his body’s attempt at a blush. “My lord?”

Fingon had seen his flush. He smiled faintly, half-apologetic, but his voice was firm as he said, “It will do neither of us good to sleep in wet clothing.” He turned away and then began to undress.

Húrin stared. Fingon’s pale skin seemed to glow, as though the light of the Trees which gleamed in his eyes lit him from within as well. How beautiful his bared shoulders and strong frame were! Surely this was the same king who had fought so boldly that a dragon had turned tail and fled before him. Húrin was nearly overwhelmed by the temptation to touch the smooth skin of Fingon’s back.

It was only when the king turned and frowned that Húrin realised he had made no move to disrobe. This time the flush came more readily to his face. He fumbled with his tunic. His hands shook in a mixture of embarrassment and weariness.

“A moment, my lord,” he said as Fingon approached him.

“Are your hands too cold? Let me help,” Fingon said, and Húrin laughed. The sound seemed altogether too loud in the small cave. Fingon raised both eyebrows.

“Forgive me, my lord, but I was only….” Húrin hesitated, trying to think of an excuse that was neither how he had been enthralled at the sight of Fingon like a love-sick fool nor that he was too weak to undress himself. Nothing came to him. At last he shrugged and smiled. “I can manage, my lord, though I thank you.”

“Very well,” Fingon said, and stepped away. “I shall try to make a fire.”

Húrin undressed slowly, brooding. He wished that he hadn’t been so careless. If he had kept Fingon from the river, they would probably be celebrating their victory. Instead it was as though Morgoth had managed to discover and pervert his fantasies. In his dreams Húrin had been confident and Fingon had been pleased by the attention. He couldn’t imagine how he must appear to Fingon now, still shivering and weak from the cold.

Fingon made a satisfied sound. When Húrin looked, the king was crouched before a small fire in the corner of the cave. He turned, smiling over his shoulder and looking pleased.

“Well done, sire.” Despite his unhappiness, Húrin grinned back. He could feel the fire’s heat spreading through the cave. Perhaps in another moment he would stop shivering and causing Fingon undue worry. He dropped his last stocking onto his pile of wet clothes and felt hopeful that he might escape this night with at least a little of his dignity.

Then Fingon beckoned. “Come, warm yourself by the fire.”

Húrin’s good humour fled. Could he endure sitting so close to Fingon? He would have to, for the king wouldn’t accept a refusal. Now the cave seemed too warm as he crossed the cave and sat down carefully beside Fingon. Positioning himself so that he was between the king and the cave entrance, he held his hands towards the fire and did his best to think of nothing at all.

After a moment, Fingon sighed. Húrin glanced over, watching as Fingon attempted to comb his tangled hair. He grimaced as his fingers caught upon a knot. Holding up the tangle for inspection, he said ruefully, “I suppose I should be grateful that I escaped the river with only the loss of my armour and some injury to my hair. A good bath, a comb, and some patience will answer the latter.”

“Aye, my lord,” said Húrin. He had the sudden image of Fingon’s dark hair shorn like a lamb’s and the king’s appalled expression as he beheld himself. A laugh rose in his throat. With difficulty, he swallowed it down, though his shoulders trembled a little at the effort.

“Is my vanity so amusing to you?” Fingon asked, merriment in his voice, and Húrin realised that he’d betrayed himself with a smile.

Húrin’s brain must have still been addled, for he said, “A little, my lord. Though who wouldn’t be vain if he looked so beautiful?”

He stopped, embarrassed by his loose tongue, but Fingon only laughed and said, “And so we all have our vices.” Fingon’s look changed, his brow creasing. 

Húrin remembered their earlier disagreement and Fingon’s declaration that he would rather have shared the bruises. At the thought, his back reminded him of its aches and his exhaustion weighed heavier upon him. He stifled a yawn. “I suppose mine is foolhardiness then,” he said lightly, to forestall further scolding.

Fingon smiled but didn’t disagree. Instead he touched Húrin’s shoulder, saying, “We should sleep. Even the hardiest of Men must rest after such a day.” The effects of Fingon’s near drowning seemed to have passed; his hand was warm and steady upon Húrin’s arm.

Húrin resisted the temptation to lean into Fingon’s touch. He nodded. When he made to rise, wincing a little at the pain in his back, Fingon held him in place. “Sire?”

Fingon shook his head. The firelight shadowed his smile, which seemed both fond and exasperated. He said, “Did you think I meant to banish you to the other side of the cave? We’ll both sleep by the fire.”

Húrin stared. Incredulous dismay welled up in him. Sitting beside Fingon had been one thing and already a lesson in endurance. Sleeping beside him was another. He flushed. The fire had banished enough of the chill from his body that he could feel the heat spread from his face to his ears.

“My lord,” he tried to say, but the protest caught in his throat as Fingon pressed his shoulder and said softly, “Don’t make me call you stubborn as well as foolhardy!”

Looking up into Fingon’s face, Húrin saw determination there. He would never win this argument. It had been foolish to think he could, against Fingon of all the people in the world and with his mind still slow from the cold. “Let me at least sleep between you and the cave entrance,” he said, and was unsurprised when Fingon laughed.

“Very well,” Fingon said. He smiled so fondly at Húrin that Húrin’s chest tightened. “If that will help you rest more easily.”

“It would, my lord,” Húrin said, and then let Fingon draw him down onto the cave floor. Fingon lay near the fire, though not so near he would roll into it while they slept, and Húrin lay behind him, his back to the entrance. Fingon radiated heat like a smaller sun, and all of Húrin longed to press closer.

As though his desire was so great that Fingon could sense it, Fingon reached back. His fingers closed around Húrin’s arm and tugged. When Húrin resisted, Fingon said, “I have seen cold-sickness before. You will recover all the sooner if you share my heat.”

It would be far less embarrassing if this were some trick of Morgoth’s after all, Húrin decided. He consoled himself with the thought that his body was too exhausted to betray its desire. Only his blush showed the turmoil of his thoughts. A little bitterly, he asked, “And have any of your other vassals imposed upon you so?”

Fingon laughed. “It isn’t so great an imposition as you think.” When Húrin made no answer, Fingon looked over his shoulder at him. One corner of his mouth turned down. “I have heard that the cold-sickness sometimes makes its sufferers lose their common sense. Now I believe it! Shall we lay here arguing the whole night through?” He sighed. “However shall I convince you?”

Húrin’s resistance crumbled at the hint of weariness in Fingon’s voice. He remembered Fingon’s exhaustion upon the riverbank, how his limbs had trembled. What was his embarrassment compared to the king’s need? Relenting, he said, “You have already said it, my lord. If it would give you comfort, I would do anything.”

“Then let me speak plainly,” Fingon said. “It would comfort me to sleep beside you.”

This time when Fingon pulled at his arm, Húrin didn’t resist. He shifted forward, settling against Fingon’s back. Despite his exhaustion, his entire body trembled at the contact. Later, he knew, he would be consumed with longing at the memory of all that warm, bare skin, but for now only a small sigh escaped him.

“No more arguments?” Fingon asked.

Húrin heard the satisfaction in the king’s voice. “No, my lord,” he said. He used his one arm as a pillow; the other rested lightly across Fingon’s shoulder. Exhaustion weighed down his eyelids. He closed his eyes, tempted to bury his face in Fingon’s tangled hair for all that it smelled of dirt and river water.

“Good night, my lord,” he added, half-asleep already. Even his back scarcely ached, everything seeming far away. He felt a curious sensation, as though someone had taken his free hand and entwined their fingers together.

“Good night, my foolhardy vassal,” said Fingon. 

The unfamiliar note in the king’s voice followed Húrin into his dreams.

 

* * *

 

Something pressed sharply against Húrin’s cheek. Waking, he frowned and tried to turn his face away. Pain struck him like a blow. His neck hurt, his shoulders hurt, his back hurt. It felt as though every muscle he had ached. He groaned in protest. Opening his eyes, he saw only dark hair and a queer glimmer of gold and green, all lit by faint sunlight. He blinked, and the glimmer resolved itself into the stubborn jewel that remained in Fingon’s hair; Húrin must have caught his cheek upon the stone as he’d pressed close.

At the thought of the jewel, memory of the day before returned to him. A second later he realised that during the night he had decided that his duties as a vassal included becoming Fingon’s blanket. He was clutching the king to him, his arms wrapped around his chest and one leg flung over Fingon’s hip.

To his horror, Húrin felt arousal spark low in his belly. Apparently despite its aches and pains, his body had recovered enough to humiliate him. He had to untangle himself before Fingon woke. When he tried to move, his entire body protested once more. A pained noise escaped him.

Fingon stirred. He turned in Húrin’s arms. Húrin’s heart stuttered at the sight of those much-loved features so close to his own. Fingon studied him, concern warring with amusement upon his face, and Húrin fought the impulse to kiss Fingon’s mouth.

Fingon’s hand settled lightly upon Húrin’s cheek, and all thought went as he gently stroked the tender spot there. “My jewel has left its mark, it seems,” said Fingon, laughing a little. Then his laughter stopped and Húrin knew that he had noticed Húrin’s arousal.

“My lord,” he wanted to say, but his throat was too tight. He braced himself for the king’s terrible kindness. Perhaps Fingon would say that it was all right and that he had heard such things were common amongst Men. Perhaps he would pretend not to notice at all. Either choice seemed unbearable, but Húrin prepared for them both.  

Then Fingon smiled and pressed closer, his thighs sliding against Húrin’s and sending a jolt of amazed desire through Húrin. “Good morning!” Fingon said, laughing again, and Húrin had a few seconds to marvel at how blind he’d been before Fingon kissed him.

Fingon’s mouth was warm and a little sour from sleep; Húrin wished for a thousand more like it. He tried to pull Fingon even closer, all drowsiness banished by the realisation that he had permission to touch all the skin that had so tormented him the night before.

He’d forgotten his injuries. Pain flared, and his encouraging moan turned into a groan. He closed his eyes and waited for the throbbing to ease. Then he bit back another sound, this time one of protest as Fingon pulled away.

Gentle fingers stroked the edges of the worst of the bruises, carefully examining the injuries. Then Fingon said, fond and sympathetic, “There’s barely an inch of you not bruised. And yet I suppose you don’t regret your foolhardiness even now!”  

It took a moment for Húrin to realise what Fingon meant. He opened his eyes and laughed, though it hurt. “No, my lord. Well, a little, if only because I dearly wish to kiss you and the bruises make it hard.”

In consolation, Fingon kissed his brow, his cheek where the stone’s indention perhaps still remained, and then, lingering there, his mouth.

When the kiss ended, Húrin grinned. He felt drunk, as though happiness and Fingon’s kisses were as potent as wine. He laughed again, and this time the pain was more bearable. “If I had known that this would--”

“Oh no, none of that!” Fingon said, laughing as well. He stroked Húrin’s bottom lip, touching where it was slightly swollen. His expression softened again. “No, I expect you to be more careful in the future, for I prefer those in my bed to be hale and hearty.”

Húrin opened his mouth to speak and Fingon tapped his finger against his lips to silence him. “You mistake my meaning, I think. I don’t mean to keep you at home. Indeed, all my wisdom would have failed me if ever I tried to keep you or any of your kin from battle! But I shall remind you of the difference between valor and recklessness until you understand it.”

Húrin couldn’t help his grin and dared to say, “Says one who fought a dragon.”

“That is a weak argument,” said Fingon laughing, “for the minstrels neglect to mention that I did not stand alone against Glaurung. But come, I have no wish to speak of dragons. I would rather return to Barad Eithel and have you seen by the healers.” Now came a heated look to his bright eyes, warming Húrin through, and he added, “They will get you hale and hearty again.” His hand slid down Húrin's side, settling upon his thigh and caressing the sore muscle there until Húrin's restraint gave way.

He shifted, trying to urge the king's hand elsewhere, ignoring the pain of his strained and bruised back, and sighed as Fingon kept his hand firmly upon his thigh. 

"After the healers," Fingon promised. So saying, he kissed Húrin soundly.

When they parted, Húrin took a deep breath. Joy filled him. He found he couldn't stop smiling. “Then let us go to Barad Eithel as soon as we can, my lord. Foolhardy I am, yes, and stubborn too. Now add impatient to my vices.”

Fingon's laughter was sweet against Húrin's lips. 


End file.
